


forever stopped today

by ExultedShores



Category: Metro 2033 & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Ghosts, Implied Artyom/Pavel Morozov, M/M, no one ever listens to Khan, people should really listen to Khan, playing fast and loose with Metro's canonical ghosts, rated M for Metro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-28 14:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30140874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: It’s the sounds that strike him first.An echo of gunfire exploding around him, boots pounding on the concrete, men shouting unintelligible battle cries. These are the noises that plague his dreams, old memories from the surface war not buried quite deeply enough, and Miller wonders, for a moment, if he went too far inside his own head again. He does that, when it’s too quiet, when the silence makes him restless. Ulman was usually the one to pull him out of that – because he never damn wellshut up, the menace – and now…“… Colonel?”In the wake of Sparta's pyrrhic victory, Miller returns to D6.
Relationships: Miller/Ulman (Metro)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	forever stopped today

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to my friend Sam who dragged me down into Metro hell <3

There is almost nothing left of D6.

The battle was too much, too destructive. Barely anything survived.

The Red Line’s train still stands whole and proud in the middle of the facility, a monument to their failure and a taunt to the Rangers at the same time. Yes, the Red Line lost, and Sparta won, but it was a pyrrhic victory at best. The cost was too great. Much, much too great.

Miller sways on his newly constructed feet as he approaches the train, cursing softly as he finds his balance again. Andrew did a remarkable job putting these prosthetics together, but getting used to them has been… difficult. The metal is foreign to him still.

Usually, he would have been able to grab Sam’s shoulder for support, the man a constant presence at his side since the battle, but not today. This, he wants to do on his own. This, he _has_ to do on his own.

He owes Ulman that much, after all these years.

Miller can’t quite remember how it started, now. Can’t remember why, that first time, he stepped into Ulman’s personal space and growled an innuendo disguised as an order. Can’t remember which one of them closed the distance and pressed their lips together as though it was the most natural thing in the world, the only logical conclusion for two polar opposites of a magnet such as they were.

He also can’t quite remember the _last_ kiss they shared.

Arrogance, that. He hadn’t even bothered, before the battle, to find Ulman, to tell him… well. He hadn’t bothered, because surely this wouldn’t be their last battle, dire as the circumstances were. Surely they wouldn’t die at the hands of the Red Line. Surely they would be _fine_.

And now here he is, unstable on his prosthetic feet, approaching the very spot where his lover was shot in the head. Because _nothing_ is fine. Nothing will ever be fine again.

But the Rangers survived, and the Rangers still need him to lead, so Miller has to pull himself together. Has to find some sort of closure, has to move on. He did it when his wife killed herself, years ago, and he will do so now. As long as there are people in this Metro who need him, he will keep pushing forward.

All he needs to do is quash the urge to look back. And for that, he needs to do _this_. He needs to know if there’s any truth to Khan’s ghost stories – _literal_ ghost stories. He needs to know if Ulman’s spirit lingers here.

A year ago, Miller would have laughed at himself for even thinking about believing one of Khan’s tall tales. But he was proven correct about the Dark Ones, and if there is even a small chance he could be right about this…

He has to make sure.

Miller clambers through one of the bent doors of the train, grasps a railing to drag himself up the sharp incline of the overturned carriage, and jumps down, landing inelegantly on the other side. This is where most of their men died, woefully outnumbered by the Reds as they were, blocked off from reinforcements by the train’s bulk. If ghosts linger anywhere, it is here.

It’s the sounds that strike him first.

An echo of gunfire exploding around him, boots pounding on the concrete, men shouting unintelligible battle cries. These are the noises that plague his dreams, old memories from the surface war not buried quite deeply enough, and Miller wonders, for a moment, if he went too far inside his own head again. He does that, when it’s too quiet, when the silence makes him restless. Ulman was usually the one to pull him out of that – because he never damn well _shut up_ , the menace – and now…

“… Colonel?”

Miller’s head snaps up, bile rising in the back of his throat. He _knows_ that voice. He knows it as well as his own, as well as Anna’s, and he knows it cannot be real, because the owner of that voice is dead. Miller saw his body, saw the bullet wedged firmly in the centre of his forehead, saw those wide, unseeing eyes stare up at nothing. Ulman is _dead_ , and Miller’s mind is playing tricks on him.

Ghosts are not real. Khan is a madman. There are no voices.

 _Lies_.

The spectres come into focus slowly, moving like shadows detached from those casting them. They are shaped like humans, vaguely, most of them running, in tandem with the sound of heavy footfalls. Some have a voice ringing from them, though they do not have enough features for their mouths to move, and the words are impossible to understand, as if they’re spoken from underwater.

They are the imprint of a battle fought, of lives lost, of wreckage sown. They are _everywhere_ , and Miller’s hand twitches around the hilt of his revolver, itching to shoot that which isn’t there, to participate in this war that is no longer his to fight. These are – _were_ – his people, his Rangers getting slaughtered while he was trapped on the other side of the train, _under_ the train, helpless to do anything at all. Helpless to save anyone, helpless to save himself or his daughter or –

“Where’s the Colonel? We have to get to the other side! We have to –!”

Or Ulman.

The voice comes through clear as day, and Miller watches the shade it emanates from, watches it run, turn back to a faceless comrade, and – the sound of a gunshot, much louder than the other echoes persisting around him. And Ulman, this last shadow of him, reels backwards, falling, falling –

 _Gone_.

The shade scatters like an afterthought, and Miller will forever deny the noise that tears its way out of his throat, something between a wail and a whine poorly smothered behind clenched teeth.

He stands rooted to the spot, his breathing too loud in this place where so many took their last breath, even as the mocking echo of their deaths continues its endless reverberation. Khan did warn him, about the nature of spectres which died a violent death, but Miller had thought, had hoped…

“Where’s the Colonel?” Ulman’s voice is back, stronger now, his shade brighter, more defined. He’s like a beacon amidst the other apparitions, and Miller finds himself moving forward despite wanting desperately to turn back, to not witness this again.

“Petro,” the name leaves his lips like a plea, even as Ulman’s shade darts from behind cover, looking straight past Miller. “Petya, you –”

“We have to get to the other side!” Ulman continues, oblivious to Miller reaching out to him, in the right place but the wrong time. “We have to –!”

Miller should have anticipated the gunshot.

It rings in his ears, the sound louder now than before, and again Ulman – no, not Ulman, not anymore, just an imprint of him – falls back, his shade dissolving before hitting the floor.

His eyes sting, and Miller thinks, numbly, that his knees would have buckled by now if they weren’t supported by literal steel.

Blyat, but he should have listened to Khan and left things well enough alone.

“Where’s the Colonel?”

He _really_ should have listened to Khan.

Miller turns away, this time. Away from Ulman’s voice, away from the gunshot, away from the sight of a head snapping back violently and a dark splatter of blood following like an afterthought. He turns away, yet he cannot bring himself to move, to return, to leave this last remnant of Ulman behind.

Khan had warned him about that part, too. Ghosts have a way of anchoring those foolish enough to go looking for them.

So Miller remains, hands clenched into fists at his side, listening to Ulman’s final moments again, and again, and again, until –

Until he can’t take it anymore.

“Where’s the Colonel? We have to get to –!”

“Ulman!” Miller barks, his voice too loud in this tunnel devoid of life yet still struggling to be heard over the overwhelming noise of spectral gunfire. “Get behind cover!”

He’s not sure what he expected – didn’t _expect_ anything at all, not truly. Yet his order carries, and the shade starts, pulls back, a bullet – _the_ bullet – whizzing harmlessly past.

The spectre shudders, shifting into focus as though the scope through which he’s viewed has finally been properly calibrated. Ulman’s features are still translucent, but they’re sharp, true to life, _beautiful_.

If only he didn’t look so very lost.

“Colonel?” he questions, eyes sliding right over Miller as he scans the tunnel. “No, that’s not… he’s not… this isn’t right.” Ulman brings a hand to his forehead, frowning. “Why does my head hurt so much?”

When he lowers his hand, it’s covered in blood.

“Shit,” he mutters, softly but with feeling. “How…?”

“Petro,” Miller tries again, voice little more than a breathless rasp.

Ulman’s head snaps up, his eyes locking with Miller’s, and they widen with recognition, with confusion, with concern. His lips part, a question upon them, and then –

He crumbles.

The apparition collapses in on itself, familiar features twisting until there is nothing left of Ulman, nothing left at all. _Gone_.

He does not return.

And the tunnel is deathly quiet.

* * *

Day after day, he finds himself back in that tunnel.

Miller doesn’t know why he wants to, why it calls to him still, why he is plagued with nightmares when a day goes by in which he is unable to make the trek down to D6. Ulman’s spirit has not returned since that first day, hasn’t lingered like the others have, still locked in their eternal battle. Miller made a handful of half-hearted attempts to order them out of their cyclic slaughter, but only Ulman heeded, only Ulman obeyed. He always did follow orders well.

And now even the last vestige of Ulman has vanished.

Yet still, something keeps Miller coming back to the tunnel where he perished.

No, not something. _Someone_.

“Colonel?”

Miller whirls around at the sound of a voice at his back, his metal feet clunking awkwardly at the movement. Hands reach out to grab his forearm, to steady him, translucent fingers on his skin, _through_ his skin, and –

The pain of it _sears_ , burning up his arm to become overwhelming, all-consuming, like it’s all he’s ever known, like it has a grasp on his very soul, pulling, pulling, _pulling_ –

It’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving him panting on the floor, shivering from the cold sweat that has his uniform clinging to his skin. Miller curses softly, drained of energy in a way he never has before, and despite not quite remembering having fallen down, he can’t bring himself to _get up_ either. His ears are ringing, head pounding, and it’s only years of training and vigilance that force him to lift his head, to survey his surroundings. He will not be caught unawares here.

 _Another lie_.

“Good to know I can still sweep you off your feet, Slava.”

Ulman – not Ulman, not anymore, but a spectre that looks so heartbreakingly like him – grins down at Miller, the lopsided tilt of his lips not enough to mask the concern in his eyes. He’s always been good at hiding behind a smile.

Miller swallows thickly. Swallows back tears, though he would never admit as much. “They’re different feet, now.”

Ulman laughs, the sound clear yet oddly hollow, leaving no echo in the empty tunnel. “At least these won’t smell worse than a rotting snout corpse when they’ve been in your boots all day.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” Miller counters, reflexively more than anything. It’s easy, much too easy, to fall into the familiar rhythm of banter with Ulman. As though he never left. As though these past few months were nothing but a drawn-out nightmare.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my Colonel.”

He sits down next to Miller, drawing up one knee and lazily resting his arm atop it. It’s exactly the kind of posture that would’ve had Miller barking at him to sit up straight, before. Now, it’s an odd sort of comfort, to find this shade of Ulman so very similar to the man he’d been.

“What happened?” Miller asks – demands, really. “When I was down here before, you were…”

Ulman hums, his eyes fixed on the way the metal of Miller’s legs gleams in the tunnel’s low light. “I don’t know exactly,” he admits, the lightness in his voice utterly fabricated. “You pulled me out of a haze. Felt like that time we’d accidentally put the wrong mushrooms into the stew, killer headache after the fact and everything.”

“Accidentally, was it?” Miller can’t help but snipe.

“Well, the amount of it was an accident,” Ulman admits, smiling sheepishly.

“Menace,” Miller mutters fondly.

“You know you love me, Colonel.”

“I do,” Miller sighs. “Let no one ever accuse me of having taste.”

“Oi,” Ulman exclaims, raising his hand as though he means to smack Miller’s arm – then thinks the better of it. “Blin, can’t even get away with minor violence against my commanding officer anymore. And here I’d hoped I could possess your body and order the men to wear their underpants on their head.”

Only Ulman. Only Ulman could come up with something so ridiculous under such dire circumstances. “Not your most creative scheme, Petya.”

“I think that bullet took out the creative part of my brain,” Ulman attempts to joke, though even he realises it falls flat. “Not that I had much brain to begin with, really, but –”

“Ulman,” Miller cuts in, sternly.

“Right. Sorry. Only so many puns you can make about being dead before it goes stale, huh?” Ulman chuckles, but the sound holds little mirth.

Miller shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have died, Petro,” he says. “We should have been better prepared. I should have been –”

Ulman’s loud snort cuts him off. “None of us were prepared for the fucking train,” he says, looking pointedly at Miller’s metal legs. “The Reds outdid themselves.”

“Bastards.”

“Right up there with the Reich.”

Miller’s rumble of laughter dies down much too quickly. “And now, here we are. The cripple and the deceased.”

“Good name for a serial,” Ulman quips. “Would be nice to have a serial, actually. If only so we’d know what to do next.”

Now that’s a question. “You can’t leave this tunnel, can you?”

Ulman shakes his head, looking sullen. “I can’t stray too far from… well, there,” he murmurs, nodding at the very spot where he died. “Get turned around every time I try.”

Blyat, why does Khan always fuck off to nowhere when he’s actually needed? “Then I’ll come back here, whenever I’m able.”

“Colonel...” Ulman begins to protest, but halts when Miller raises a hand.

“No Ranger left behind, Ulman,” he says, in his best commander’s voice. “That includes spirits.”

Ulman snorts. “Since when?”

“Since now.”

His tone brooks no argument, and Miller could swear Ulman’s form solidifies further in that moment, his shape sharper, denser, less transparent. Like this, he can almost – _almost_ – pretend Ulman is still alive and whole.

It’s not enough. It will never be enough, not truly. It will never be like before. But it’s more than Miller expected to have, and he will keep this, cling to these remnants of his lover as fiercely as he is able.

No Ranger left behind, after all.

* * *

Miller keeps his promise.

He returns to D6 whenever he is not needed at Polis, and on occasion when he _is_ needed but can reasonably get away with delegating his responsibilities to others. He rationalises it easily by claiming they need to salvage whatever they can from D6, never mind that he only ever sets foot in what he’s come to call Ulman’s Tunnel.

He never was the most creative with names.

Then again, Ulman advocated for calling the tunnel ‘The Place Where I’m Stuck After That Fucking Train Hit And I Got Shot By A Commie Bastard’, so Miller will content himself with his lack of creativity, thank you very much.

Most often, Miller talks about the day-to-day of the Rangers, Ulman hanging onto his every word about the family he misses more than he lets on. Especially stories about more light-hearted escapades, few and far between as they are, tend to bring a smile to Ulman’s face, the expression only amplified by Miller’s grouching. And if Miller exaggerates his scowl a bit just to hear Ulman’s ghostly chuckle, well. There are worse things.

Other days, they simply walk the length of the tunnel together, Miller slowly getting surer on his new feet, Ulman testing the limits of his confinement. It reminds Miller of the days they could spend in his office, him doing the necessary paperwork, Ulman sitting nearby, cleaning his gun or helping to put away files, sometimes kneading some of the tension from Miller’s shoulders when he’d been spending too much time bent over his desk.

And sometimes there was more bending over the desk, too.

Miller misses those days. He misses everything he can no longer have, even though he knows he has managed to retain more than should be possible, and he ought to be grateful. He _is_ grateful. But that doesn’t mean he can stop wishing for Ulman’s practised hands on his back whenever the old ache settles between his shoulder blades once again.

As it has today.

“Alyosha’s report?” Ulman asks cheerily, and Miller’s head snaps up to find his spectre leaning against the wall, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. “You only ever squint that much when you’re deciphering his handwriting. Unless you’re just getting old. I think you’d look handsome in reading glasses, for what it’s worth.”

Miller very carefully, very deliberately puts his fountain pen down. “Ulman,” he says, tone perfectly measured, full of calm he does not actually possess. “How are you here?”

“Funny thing,” Ulman shrugs, making a poor show of playing at nonchalance. “I, ah, think I have a new epicentre. Apparently you make more of an impact than even the bullet in my head, Slava.”

He sounds so very hesitant, so unsure of himself, as though… as though he’s uncertain he’s wanted here. Of course.

Another might have smiled, might have said something reassuring, but Miller has never been particularly good at comfort. Instead, he nods once, and slides Alyosha’s report to the corner of the desk. “If you’re going to hang around here, make yourself useful,” he orders, gesturing at the paper. “Read that to me. I can’t make sense of the damn scribble. I swear –

“– it’s like he’s five years old,” Ulman finishes for him, smiling fondly as he approaches to do as he’s bid. “So am I to be your secretary, Colonel? Because you know what they say about bosses and their secretaries.”

“That the boss really ought to look for someone with proper qualifications instead of getting swept away by long legs and a pretty smile?”

“Aw, you think my smile is pretty, Colonel?”

“Read me the damn report.”

Ulman reads him the damn report.

* * *

No one else takes notice of Ulman.

Trained eyes occasionally catch on the unnatural shadow, some of the more seasoned Rangers flinching when Ulman speaks loudly in the hallways, but it’s quickly dismissed as a trick of the light, an unfortunate draft. No one sees Ulman, not like Miller can, his presence solid and constant, as though he never left in the first place.

“So then he said, he said –” Ulman is prattling incessantly as they move to inspect the guard posts, Miller fighting to keep a straight face here amidst his men. He’s already gotten more than enough looks for muttering under his breath too much, and the last thing he needs is for the Rangers to think him unhinged, unfit to lead. There’s no one else he’d trust to take over command. Except, perhaps, for –

“Colonel? A moment?”

Except, perhaps, for Artyom.

“Make it fast, Artyom,” Miller says curtly. “They’re expecting me at the front.”

Artyom does not answer, not immediately. His eyes are fixated on a point over Miller’s shoulder, narrowed as though he’s trying to bring something into focus. As though he’s trying to bring _Ulman_ into focus.

Miller shifts, the movement subconscious more than anything, attempting to shield Ulman from Artyom’s keen gaze. And one shadow, an odd shadow, one that shouldn’t be there at all, moves with him.

Artyom notices Miller’s line of sight, and some colour drains from his face. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you, Colonel. My apologies.”

Under different circumstances, Miller might have marvelled at Artyom’s sudden penchant for decorum. As it stands, he’s more than happy to take the out Artyom is providing him. “As you were, then.”

Artyom inclines his head and moves past him with urgency.

“If you harm that kid, I’ll damn well kill you again, you hear me?!”

Miller starts at Ulman’s unexpected outburst, and he turns to find Ulman’s features twisted into an uncharacteristically fierce scowl. “You think that spectre will attempt to harm Artyom?”

“He’s a _Red_ ,” Ulman says darkly. “The _gal_ , after what those fuckers did to us, to _him_ …”

Miller glances back at Artyom, at the shadow protectively shielding his back. He knows Artyom had help from a Red when escaping the Reich, knows that same Red betrayed his trust at Bolshoi. And he knows how hollow the look in Artyom’s eyes had been when he reported the death of a Major at Red Square, knows he looked nothing like a man who’d just achieved victory over a despised enemy.

Instead, he’d looked much the same way Miller had, in the weeks following the Battle of D6.

“Reds don’t believe in souls,” is what he says. “This seems a fitting punishment.”

“I’ll give the bastard a fitting punishment.”

“Don’t pick a fight with another ghost,” Miller orders, in no uncertain terms. “I’d rather not deal with the unpleasant consequences that are certain to arise from that. I like this base, Ulman.”

Ulman huffs. “Spoilsport.”

* * *

Ulman remains a constant presence at his side.

Until the very end.

“Branch, Slava, go right,” his voice is all Miller hears, all he registers, the radiation poisoning his blood blocking out everything else. It _hurts_ , like nothing has before, like nothing ever should, and Miller knows. He knows.

He _knows_.

He’s on borrowed time, but he will make the most of it. Drive, get out of the stifling radiation, get _Artyom_ out. They’ll take care of him on the Aurora, give him blood, save his life. The medicine Miller gave him – the medicine he deprived himself of – will only keep him alive for so long.

So he drives.

He drives.

He drives.

He…

“Slava.”

Ulman’s voice. Familiar. Safe. Beloved.

“Petya,” he manages, his voice raw in the back of his throat.

“Come on, up you go,” Ulman murmurs, sounding so very fond and yet so very sad. “I’ve got you.”

A hand enters his vision, and Miller reaches out to take it, not thinking of the consequences, of what happened last time the living touched the dead. He grasps Ulman’s hand, lets Ulman pull him to his feet. His whole, flesh-and-blood feet.

Ah.

Well. He did know, in the end.

He did what he had to. He saved Artyom’s life. And this is his afterlife, his penance, and his reward. Because, he thinks, as he marvels quietly at the feeling of Ulman’s hand in his own, warm and familiar and as solid as in life, this cannot be punishment. Not if he gets to have this.

Ulman’s lips still taste the same, even after all this time.

It feels like absolution.


End file.
